A Different Kind of Sic-Fic
by Magician Irono
Summary: Tackling mental illness as opposed to physical. Trigger warning!


I'm tackling a mental illness for this one. I haven't suffered from it personally and wasn't really close to anyone afflicted with it. I'm writing for practice, mostly, as my fanfic usually is for. This is in no way meant to promote anorexia, bulimia, binge-eating or EDNOS is any way, shape or form, but here is a Trigger Warning nonetheless. If you or anyone you know is suffering from one of the mentioned disorders, please alert a licensed professional and seek help as soon as possible.

Prologue

A gray, fuzzy film lays, curled up tight, on the ground and thus obscures sight and surroundings. In short, fog. The air smells wholesome and refreshing, like rain. High humidity. It's warmth clings to my skin like a blanket. Walk forward. There's something in the distance. A few more steps. Looks like a wooden bench. A sapling is planted next to it, sprouting tiny leave and flowers. I have seat and twiddle my thumbs, looking about. I'm supposed to meet someone here, I think.

A presence ghosts behind my spot with an air of nobility and grace. I'm surprised to find a silhouette in pure white, but this is the one I was meant to see. Tall, slender, otherworldly. Ceramic rosary beads click together around her neck and wrists. Few details define her figure- I can't tell where her conservative dress ends and skin begins. Hair and clothing float, caught in some breeze that I can't feel. She turns her pearl colored gaze in my direction. Gently, saintly. But this is not one deserving of a friendly hello. I'm on my feet with balled up fists.

"Give me back my wife."

_I don't have anyone, sir_, she explains. _I did not give her those ideas, nor did I give them to any other who asked._

"You're a monster."

_I am a tool. The one who serves._

"Something like you?"

The thing actually looks sad. Must be an act. _I was not born to be a murderer, sir. Saints, bishops, popes- they gave me much admiration and respect in my more verdant years. I was part of a higher cause, something above a base, animalistic nature. My fondest memories are of their prayers and gifts for the unfortunate._

"Oh, and the other one was supposed to be good too?"

_My brother was brought into the world so food wouldn't go to waste._

"Well it still does if you're throwing it up!"

_Peace, peace._ She puts up her thin palm and long fingers. _Anger is just as poisonous as . . . as I have become. Don't let it consume you. _

Pause.

_I know what you see in our wife. Sadness. Fear. Death and everything that can be broken. I have seen it myself far too many times._

". . . You've gotten to five of the other subs, too. I know what happens." I can already see it. First Ana's clothes won't fit. She's be starring in the mirror and at the scale, calculating every calorie and gram in a little notebook, overworking herself to collapse just to shed that extra pound from "dinner". Then shivering under a pile of blankets, complaining about how it hurts and how she can't get warm, yet still stubbornly refusing so much a bagel. Nothing but skin and bones. An image comes to my mind of her looking in the glass slab again, inspecting the new lump from her pacemaker or the tube in her stomach. The number "97" would appear on the scale the last time she steps on. . .

"She's going to die."

. . .

The figure drifts towards me. Her sorrow is more convincing this time around, but she continues with a firm voice. _I can't leave. She'll have to push me away. But as long as there are followers and there is a God, maybe I can bring about some of the Lord's favor. Then you may have an opportunity to save her._

I'm frozen. Ana will be sleeping in a coffin and a black dress, where just months before she had been clad in her wedding gown.

_God's speed. To the waking world with you._

I blink. Back in our room. Anastasia's side of the bed is empty, just like it's been for the past few weeks. The blinds are down. Thunder grumbles outside. And all I want is her in my arms, healthy and happy again.

FST

To explain, the white figure is anorexia, which used to be associated with fasting for religious purposes and giving food to the ones who didn't get to eat as much, hence the rosary and fondness towards prayer. Even when thicker figures were the ideal, like in the 18th century (I think), being thin like this meant you were holy and pure in a sense. Today, many anorexics come from families that are successful and hold high expectations. But this may not be the case for everyone. Again, I do not suffer.

Let me know if I should continue. I have an idea for how it would go, but any information and ideas would be very helpful. Maybe I can spread some awareness around and encourage a few people to get help. Until then, stay happy and healthy.

-Magician Irono


End file.
